before these buttons strolled
by fingers
or legs
that look like one...
people switch their bones
and lick each others' flesh
they ask questions
as to why nails aren't pink
when it isn't
they laugh
when ****
isn't as loud
as the ones from horses
before these tabs came
it was the sky
that enjoy stares
as if eyes know
battles between busy stars
before these batteries came
people sit too close
to warmth from fire
while their teeth
enjoy the silence
that munch meals
just before bed time
alone
very alone.
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 4:49 AM UTC
before these buttons strolled
by fingers
or legs
that look like one...
people switch their bones
and lick each others' flesh
they ask questions
as to why nails aren't pink
when it isn't
they laugh
when ****
isn't as loud
as the ones from horses
before these tabs came
it was the sky
that enjoy stares
as if eyes know
battles between busy stars
before these batteries came
people sit too close
to warmth from fire
while their teeth
enjoy the silence
that munch meals
just before bed time
alone
very alone.
I am thinking this poem of mine is an investigation into whether we have lost the things that made us whole. What should we blame it on? Us or the idea of us? I simply used the phone to check this thought of mine out.
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